


two are halves of one

by cmbing



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Best Friends in Love, F/M, both the one in Lisbon's office and the CBI one, major fluff and bickering, this is an ode to Jane and Lisbon and their couches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:00:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24032416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cmbing/pseuds/cmbing
Summary: They fall back into their comfortable silence, and she feels herself grow drowsy too. Her office becomes a bit fuzzier, and he seems warmer, closer and there. Sometimes, she thinks she should say something, say something beyond their platonic orbit. She could fall apart right here, spill the words that batter throughout her skull from time to time. But she’s tired and the world becomes quiet and she should go.(She doesn’t).
Relationships: Patrick Jane/Teresa Lisbon
Comments: 12
Kudos: 129





	two are halves of one

**Author's Note:**

> i had such a positive response on my last fic omg. so here we are again! more sappiness and bickering from our favorite best friends to lovers' crime-fighting duo. hope you all enjoy

**then.**

He collapses onto the couch in her office without even a greeting. She lifts her gaze from her paperwork and watches as his eyelids slide shut and a smile plays on his lips.

“Hello?” she tries.

“Hi, Lisbon,” he replies, further snuggling into the couch.

“Shouldn’t you be heading out? It’s getting late.”

“Nah,” he says. “I wanted to keep you company.”

She would be lying if she said that didn’t make her happy, and a bit more, unable to quell her smile. “Really?”

“And your couch is far comfier than the cot I have upstairs.”

“Ah. So, you’re just using me for my couch?” she lightly teases. 

He smiles wider and lets his eyes open, looking at her with an unforgiving green. “You caught me.”

She glances back down at the endless array of papers and files sprawled across her desk, then over at her grinning partner, and realizes her attempt to get actual work done is futile. She gets up from her desk and moves towards the couch, nudging his long legs with her knee. “Move,” she says.

He acquiesces with a harumph, tucking his legs up closer to his abdomen so Lisbon can squeeze in on the other end. Only Jane, Jane with his smile and criminally good looks and consistent suit attire, could appear young and boyish, curling his body up into almost a ball. He has that sweet and sleepy look to him that softly lines his cheeks and coats his eyes. If he was closer, their elbows bumping and heads threatening to lean on shoulders in unspoken intimacy, she bets she would catch him smelling like tea. A new Egyptian blend he has been recently obsessed with, hot and spiced with a lasting note of vanilla. Almost like him, she muses. Blunt and heated upon first exchange, but syrupy and kind once you got to know him. 

She knows he doesn’t sleep well for someone who likes to keep his eyelids shut. His brain agonizes and aches, thinks about current cases and more often than not, Red John. Sometimes, she wonders if she breaks through the muddle, if he thinks about her before he drifts into a fitful dream.

(Like she does. She tries to stop it, but she does. He creeps into her thoughts and never fully leaves, a golden brush of curls and smirks during the darkness of night).

Selfishly, she likes it when he chooses her couch instead of the one in the bullpen. She likes how he seeks out just her, walking past Cho and Van Pelt and Rigsby without a second thought, and settling into her office. Sometimes, they discuss work. Sometimes, they talk about lunch plans, and a movie that Jane is tempted to see. And sometimes, they don’t say anything at all. Lisbon relishes those moments the most: he loves to talk, explain his theories and go off on another tangent, but with her, he quiets. It must be friendship to enjoy silence together.

“Lisbon.”

“Yeah?”

“Picture this: you’re trapped on a deserted island.”

“Why am I trapped on a deserted island?”

“It doesn’t matter, just imagine it. We’re playing a game.”

“A game?”

“How do you have so many questions?”

“I’m an agent, Jane.”

“Well, stop interrogating me and listen.”

She huffs out a laugh. “Fine.”

“So, you’re on an island, and you can only bring three items with you.”

“Oh, but of course. The unspoken rules of the island.”

He opens one eye to peek at her. “I’m amazed by your ability to turn anything into an argument, Lisbon. It’s truly uncanny.”

She swats at his thigh. “Jerk.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” he says. “So, you have three items. They can’t be your phone or laptop or anything because there’s no electricity. Also, you already have shelter and water and access to food, so don’t worry about that.”

“Hmm,” she considers. “I’d bring the _Harry Potter_ series, a blanket in case it gets cold, and my Chicago Bears shirt.”

“Really? That thing?”

“It’s comfortable to sleep in!”

“Whatever you say, Lisbon.”

“Fine. What would _you_ pick?” she prompts.

“ _War and Peace_ , the packet of crossword puzzles plus a pen because I’m counting that as one item, and a big box of teabags. Easy.”

“You’re so predictable.”

“Maybe to you,” he says, smiling. “Now it’s your turn.”

“My turn?” she asks.

“Yeah. Come up with a different scenario.”

“You realize I should be working.”

“And yet, you’re spending time with me. So, c’mon.”

She ponders briefly, then says, “Okay, I’ve got a good one. It’s the end of the world—“

“How dark of you, Lisbon.”

“—Like that one episode of _The Twilight Zone_ where the atomic bomb goes off and kills everyone except for the guy who locked himself in a vault to read books.”

“I remember.”

“So, it’s the end of the world and you can only have one other person with you—who do you pick?”

He blinks at her. “Well obviously, I’d pick you.” 

She falters: “Oh.”

“What do you mean ‘oh?’” he asks. 

“I just… oh,” she says, not quite finding the words.

“Who else would I pick?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Cho.”

He shrugs. “I like Cho. But he isn’t my best friend.”

She pauses. He quietly hums to himself. She realizes it’s been a long time since someone’s called her a best friend. Maybe college, maybe before then. She has good friends, even coworkers she likes to call family. But best friend: it warmly settles into her chest. To be called the best, better above all else. I choose you, it says. I choose you every time. 

And she knows she means something to him. He wouldn’t work with her practically every day, putting in the hours for a job that extends beyond catching Red John, if she didn’t. He shows up, and it has to be more than his need for civic duty. He likes her, respects her. Calls her his partner and his friend.

His _best_ friend.

She looks at him, tries the word out in her own mouth. “You’re my best friend, too.”

His eyes are already shut, a grin still on his lips. She likes how dependable that grin is, how it’s always half-there, perhaps even more when she’s around. “I know, Lisbon.”

They fall back into their comfortable silence, and she feels herself grow drowsy too. Her office becomes a bit fuzzier, and he seems warmer, closer and there. Sometimes, she thinks she should say something, say something beyond their platonic orbit. She could fall apart right here, spill the words that batter throughout her skull from time to time. But she’s tired and the world becomes quiet and she should go.

(She doesn’t).

She isn’t sure of what happened until her wristwatch beeps at six a.m., and there are the gentle footsteps of an early agent or two out in the bullpen. She then becomes acutely aware of her predicament: she dozed off, and apparently, dozed off right into his embrace. His arm is around her waist, his soft breaths billowing against the back of her neck. Asleep, relaxed, unlike how he usually is. 

A part of her screams _move, this is wrong, you have to move_. The other part yearns to stay.

And so, the other part wins. It wins until she feels the brush of his curls against her head and he’s mumbling, “Morning, Lisbon.” Then, more cheekily, “If you wanted to sleep with me, all you had to do was ask.”

She bites back a smile.

**now.** ****

She feels someone pulling on her desk chair. Said someone spins her around, looks at her with a smile. Jane. But of course. 

“I’m in the middle of something,” she admonishes.

“Come hang out with me.” With an added smirk, “On the couch.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Are you propositioning me, Jane?” 

“Maybe. Why don’t you come find out?”

“We’re at work.” She can feel the tips of her ears grow hot. 

“Everyone’s gone home,” he says, pointing out at the desolate floor. Even Cho had headed off, getting dragged out by Vega and Wylie who earlier mentioned something about ‘team bonding’ and ‘five-dollar drinks.’

She counters: “The janitors are still here.”

“Not on this floor,” he says. “And they won’t be for another hour or two. I’ve memorized their schedule.”

“When did you find the time to do that?”

He cocks his head. “I get bored.” His hands fall to her knees, then move slowly upwards. “C’mon, Teresa. Now’s not the time to be a good Catholic.”

Her wrists are seized by his hands, and he’s pulling her onto the couch next to him. He looks at her for a moment, and it almost takes her breath away even after years of knowing him: he inspects her, considers, notices things she is not sure even she notices is about herself. He looks at her as if she is a painting, each brushstroke to be praised. He sweeps a loose strand of hair off her face, lets his hand cup her cheek, and his thumb touch her cheekbone. Only centimeters away, yet he doesn’t close the distance. Rather, he admires.

“Jane…”

His lips curve into a kind, sincere smile. “I’m so in love with you.”

She smothers his mouth with hers, tasting his passioned words and sweet grin. It’s more than she can say, more than she will ever be able to properly say when it comes to him. He loves her; without hesitation, he loves her. Loves her in the light and in the dark, during rough cases and quiet moments at home. He says it easily and fully, like his chest cannot contain his words. 

“I love you,” she says against his lips. “I’m _in_ love with you.” His mouth moves from hers to the hinge of her jaw. She murmurs, “For years, I have been.”

“Me too,” he whispers. “Me too.”

“I know it took me a long time to say—“

“Doesn’t matter. You’re saying it now.”

She pulls back and looks at him: his eyes, his hair, his smile. Bright, so bright and brilliant and him. He’s so handsome, it’s nearly unfair. She briefly noticed his appearance when they first met, but he was so broken and she was so unamused by their new pseudo-partnership, she moved past it without a second thought, already too consumed by his hair-brained antics. And then, they became friends and having a crush on your friend isn’t really a part of the deal. She locked away any notion that he was well, _hot,_ in favor of keeping him as a close confidant. Even when an old college friend of hers stopped by and quickly pulled Lisbon into her office and said: “ _That’s_ your partner?”

“Jane?” Lisbon had asked. “Yeah, that’s him.”

“You didn’t tell me he’s basically a model."

Lisbon looked out her office window where Jane was teaching card tricks to Rigsby. “Oh, well, I guess, yeah. He’s attractive. I don’t know, I don’t really think about it.”

“How do you not? If I worked ten hours a day with someone who looked like him, I’d have him on my couch in under ten seconds.”

Lisbon had laughed her friend off.

But now, a few years later, she has Jane, _her boyfriend_ , moving her to her back so he can lower himself onto her, kissing her long and languidly. His old CBI couch isn’t the comfiest thing on earth, becoming worn and tattered from its years of being Jane’s favorite place to crash, but his lips hover over her pulse point and she barely notices.

“We’re not having sex here,” she says, perhaps a bit too breathily. 

“No we’re not,” he replies, “but I’d be lying if I said I never thought about making out with you on this couch before.”

“Really?” she hums.

“Oh yeah,” he says against her lips. “Didn’t you ever think about it too?”

“Of course… _not_ ,” she says. “That would be unprofessional.”

His hand slightly slides under her shirt, making her gasp at his cool touch. “You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“ _No,_ I’m not."

“We’re dating now, Lisbon. You can admit it.”

“Never.”

The gentle brush of his lips becomes rougher, more impatient, tongue and teeth. He wants her, wholly and completely, taking her bottom lip into his mouth. She likes him all ways, but this way in particular, it still catches her off guard. With heavy desire, his greedy mouth and leaded eyes, seizing her. 

“Yeah,” she finally breathes. “I thought about it too. A lot. Yeah, a-a lot.”

“Like this?” he teases. 

“Like this.”

They kiss until they realize they should probably go home, lips swollen and cheeks flushed. He holds her hand in the elevator, in the lobby, as they walk to her car. She’s almost embarrassed by how much she misses his touch when he lets go so she can drive, dodging through late-night Austin traffic. 

Once home, she boils them a pot of tea while Jane sneaks off to her bedroom, trading in his three-piece suit for a pair of grey sweatpants that he keeps in his delegated drawer. She loves seeing him dressed up, but seeing him so casual, bare-chested and easily smiling, she may prefer. No one else gets to catch him this way: without a suited front, simply carefree. 

He crowds behind her, pressing his chest to her back, brushing feather-light kisses to her neck.

“Hey.”

“Stop, Jane,” she giggles. “I’m trying to make us some food.”

“Not hungry,” he manages to say.

“Well, I am.”

“Spoilsport,” he huffs.

He goes over to her couch and crashes down. She later joins him, bringing over tea and her own bowl of oatmeal. He flicks on a movie, moving closer and curling an arm around her shoulder. She tucks herself into his side, her gaze lifting up toward him.

“Stop watching me,” he laughs. “Watch the movie.”

“I can do both.”

“I’m not as interesting.”

“Wrong."

“Wrong?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me—what makes me so interesting?”

She says simply: “You’re everything.”

He falls quiet. She’s not used to him being without a remark. Wordlessly, he brushes a kiss to her temple, smiling against her skin. 

**Author's Note:**

> is this cheesy? perhaps. but lisbon and jane deserve some cheesiness i think.


End file.
